


No Te Preocupes

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [5]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Light Angst, M/M, slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 10:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11034771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: “He’d kill me if he knew I told you,” Luis says, “Fucks up his image of being all cool, calm and collected.”





	No Te Preocupes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

It’s just past midnght when Neymar steps into the apartment. The hallway light is on, and as he toes off his shoes, he registers TV noise and quiet conversation filtering in from elsewhere in the apartment. He passes through the kitchen on his way to the living room, pauses to grab an orange from the fridge. In the living room, the TV is on, tuned to Univision and a Liga MX game. His roommates are both there--Leo sprawled out in the chair and Luis stretched out on the sofa. 

“We saved the floor for you,” Luis says. Neymar throws a piece of orange peel at him.

“Who’s playing?” he asks, sitting down on the floor with his back against the sofa. 

“Chivas and Monterrey,” Leo replies. He pauses, glances over at Neymar, continues, “There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge if you want it.”

Neymar raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry,” Leo adds, “Luis didn’t cook it.”

Luis throws a pillow at Leo, who cracks a grin and tosses the pillow to Neymar, who tucks it triumphantly behind his back. 

-

The game ends in a 1-1 tie. As the broadcast switches over to post-game, Luis shuts the TV off and the living room is suddenly quiet. 

“What time do you have to work tomorrow?” Luis asks, breaking the silence. 

“Seven,” Neymar replies, glancing at his watch. 1:02 A.M. “Fuck,” he adds, “Why’d you guys have to be in here watching _fútbol_ when I got home? You’re a shitty influence.”

Luis huffs out a laugh, but there’s no response from Leo. Neymar looks over then, and sees that Leo’s asleep, one arm tucked under his head. 

A socked foot looms unexpectedly in his vision, pokes him in the side of the face. He suppresses the urge to shout an insult just in time, shoves the foot away and turns around to flip Luis off instead. Luis grins in response. 

For a few moments, they lapse back into silence.

“Hey,” Luis says eventually. Neymar hums an acknowledgment.

“You know he just stays awake to make sure you get home.”

“What?”

“Leo. He worries,” Luis clarifies, “About, you know. About immigration. And you. So he stays up to be sure you come home.”

Neymar doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t remember ever actually telling Leo—or Luis—that he doesn’t have papers to be here in the U.S. He supposes it wasn’t that hard to figure out though—no driver’s license, no health insurance, working two restaurant kitchen jobs. He wonders how long they’ve known. 

He looks over to see if Leo is still asleep, and it seems like he is. He hasn’t moved, at least. 

“He’d kill me if he knew I told you,” Luis adds, “Fucks up his image of being all cool, calm and collected.”

Neymar hums another acknowledgment. He’s still not sure what to say.

-

The next morning, Neymar runs into Leo in the kitchen. Luis is already at work. There are bags under Leo’s eyes, the kind that don’t just come from a single night of missed sleep, but he’s cheerful and alert, tells Neymar he can have the other piece of toast he’s made, if he wants. 

Neymar brews up a pot of coffee, pours two cups, and sets one on the table where Leo is sitting, finishing up his toast. 

“Thanks,” he says, glancing up. 

Neymar nods. 

“You know, you should get more sleep,” he says after a moment of indecision. 

Leo looks like he’s considering that for a few seconds. Then he quirks a half-smile.

“You kidding me?” he replies, getting to his feet and grabbing his cup of coffee, “Wouldn’t miss those late-night Liga MX games for anything.” He steps by Neymar, heading back to his room like most mornings, but as he does so, he drops a hand on Neymar’s shoulder, squeezes gently. 

Neymar can’t tell if the pull in his chest is guilt, or gratitude, or maybe both.

**Author's Note:**

> Liga MX: the top division of the Mexican football/soccer league


End file.
